He the heir of ding a-ling
Not to proclaim again
The universe; below the belt of lonesome theme
Nothing like Euripedes scale?
Warriors! Abide no more!
Let him hear! By anothers winter's tale!
Let him speak!
Verbalize his own ideals of the will
Free of justice, back his wealth in need of triduum
He's the man of knowledge, the half was taken
Forbids not to take the road again!
Don't kill! He may endure cynism beyond pain!
Let him freed!
He's not Echo who just love himself
He, the scientist of the noble minds
Of an old aphorism in 1513
Please! Do not my King, in Napoleon's name!
His words are gait sparred
Oh! Like him is just a continuation of pendulous fame
He's not Gods, nor Greek, nor French
His human by all faith and means
Do not kill! His worth more than any of cunneus wedge
More than you'll know my kin
Do not let him die in his sentence...
My revolutionary heart smiled at its private joke:
“The poor can’t eat the rich because they’d gag and they’d choke
On toxins like guilt, cynism and greed,
Prozac and Botox – not quite what the poor need.”
But, the above-mentioned attitudes, I hear you demur,
Are found just as commonly amongst the poor.
Yes, I retort, it’s just as you say –
But they have better reasons to feel that way.
For those with soft beds, their futures assured,
Their needs taken care of, their investments secured,
No wolves near their doors, their faces unlined -
Surely these ones can simply afford to be kind?
For the poor each gesture has a real cost –
A loaf of bread given may mean a meal lost,
But the rich can donatecratefuls, it takes no nerve,
It is only a snack, a missed hors’d’oevre!
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